The Democratic press. [volume] (Ravenna, O. [Ohio]) 1868-1901, 1887-06-16
DOC.
n simple Tale of Backwoods Life.

N simple Tale of Backwoods Life.
When Doc first came to live with us
1t was in the early spring. He was
pitiful-leOking boy. He was little.
puffy-looking chap, with a pale face,
small, bony arms, and short, weakly
looking legs, and rather sickly-look-
ing, frizzled up, straw-eolored hair on
his heal. There was no personal
beauty about Docs face and figure,
and yet he was .notunusually hard fav-
ored. He was commonplace. Only
that and nothing more. Only pea
i'm pod where IL dozen peas of similar
appearance reposed. Only a little
wire-grass boy, with not one redeem
ang feature about him except his eyes.
They were only remarkable for the pa
1hetic expression that fingered there.
What little light that ever flashed from
them was of that sorrowful cast that
one observes lingering on the western
horizon after days rain has closed
i'm humid sunset.
Doc lost his mother. That was the
lie that bound us to him. She was
commonplace wire-grass woman, but
in her ulcultured soul dwelt the same
traits of maternal love and cherishing
Tenderness that are supposed to Hum
Inc the high-born souls of those grand
danes whose white hands have never
battled against a hard and evil fate
for the simple necessities of prolong-
sng existence. She had nourished and
cherished her little boy, as only a fond
mother can nourish and cherish a weak
and fragile child. Ever ON the watch,
she had stood between him and all the
wild streams of adversity that ragged
about their humble log cabin in the
desolate barrens.
When she died Doc took it to heart
10 greater extent than any of us
thought possible. He had been such
puny, peeyish, pettish sort of boy
that we thought that only his selfish
ness could suffer. We were mistaken.
Doc was older than his age.
Well remember how mother used
to toast the crispest bits of brown
cornbread, softened with the fresh,
sweet butter, and how she used to put
in a big lump of that brown mush
sugar in his coffee, SO as to induce the
little fellow to eat.
.sYou know his ma is dead" she
used to say, land we must try to keep
him from missing her in every way we
can"
And we were learning. We were
being taught the grandest lesson in
human lore-the creed of nnselfish-
ness.
We could not get him to join us very
often in any play. He was too weak.
But when the afternoon sun shone
through the riffs in the great pine for
est he would creep out on the sunny
side with US and we would adjust our
sports to his strength. Sometimes he
would look up from his play, and, with
his eyes full of tears,s he would ex-
claim: ''My ma is dead! I can't never
see her no morew Then he would sob
and moan as if his little heart would
break, and am not ashamed to say
we would cry too. .sMight not the
good Lord take our dear mother. toop"
I'VE asked ourselves.
All! my sainted mother! Thy love-
lighted brown eyes have been closed
to earthly scenes for many summers.
They closed your poor, toil-worn
hands above your cold, still heart a
dong, long time ago, and the tall pines
have shed from their dropping
boughs the purest distilled dews of
heaven above your lonely grave; and
yet in my dreams / see that face often
and again, and never accomplish a
good deed or am guilty of bad one
but what yours is the first name that
flashes through my intellect A man
may have 10000 friends, even two
well-beloved wives, but never but one
mother. Blessed be that holy name
above all earthly treasures most sacred
and longest cherished.
As the spring days grew warmer and
the timid wood violets peeped forth on
banks where the sun fingered longest,
our protege grew more robust. There
was even faint tinge of blood in his
pallid cheek after short walk about
the plantation.
Deeper green grew the woodlands.
The rugged pines even touched them
selves up with a few gay tufts of
softer tint, and from their queer bios
SONS fell showers of gold dust that
covered the still surfaces of the water
ponds. The trailing jasmine covered
itself with golden bloom. and the
honeysuckle and dogwood blossoms
made the swamps and lowlands radi-
ant with gay hues and redolent with
delicate perfume. Birds sang among
the bursting buds on the crab-apple
tree, and the blue arch of heaven was
gilded with the fine gold of the e1ife-giv-
ing sunlight.
Our sports and pastimes would seem
funny to you. We went fishing nights.
1t was only half mile to the creek,
and on little bluff that overhung the
dark waters we could build our camp
fires, and then cast our crude tackle
in the gloomy eddies where the fire.
light played in fitful waves of light and
shadow. Doc did love to fish. We
would dig in the trash heaps for muck
worms or skin the pine logs for saw
yers, and then we would carry his
tackle for him, and walk slow, and
help him across the sloshes, and when
he would catch mudcat we would say
it was a big, fine fellow.
Doc was not an unappreciative boy.
He sang those queer, old-fashioned
songs for us-songs which he had heard
his mother sing. | have sat and lis
tened to his Barbara Allen" as the
echoes ran riot among the caves and
jungles, till the big owl returned the
challenge with mocking fit of insane
laughter.
The old song comes back to me with
the quaint rhythm as write:
He sent his servant to the town,
49, Where Barb'ry was dwellin'.
Sayin' you must go to me own master
Eff your name be Barb'ry Allen.
Then there was another stanza that
was very affecting indeed:
And as she walked adown the street
"a The bells they were a-tollin',
E@ And every toll they seemed to say,
Hard-hearted Barbry Allen.
know the old song would not attune
well to parlor organ, and doubt if
you could play it on grand piano.
But there was pathos of the thing
that stirred my youthful soul to its
depths.
Blue-eyed spring began to grow
plump, and finally developed into the
maturer charms of summer. Summer,
with the drone of the bumble-bee at
noon, and lazy Lawrence dancing on
the worm fences. Summer time, sweet
summer time! The peaches ripened
and reddened, and the corn silks be-
gan 70 appear. Doc said if the first